& Hobo was a Giant in his sleep. Humongous
human, Everyman. Shot-putter of dreams
the length of 50 football fields, he teems,
all tied up in the 9th – filled with resinous
pine-sleep (since that chestnut in his heart
is now all almond, out of hayseed season –
wintering in Florida). Dream beyond reason.
The blue-green needles cling like straw, smart.
& she riddles him with griffin-lore, and tugs
his beard of Samsonite (his bully bulletin-
board, for tool-&-die) and dares him into
a mazy weird (beside the sluggish river Slugs)
eluding him until sundown (& then
she's gone). It was like this every Sunday
50 weeks of years : thinking of Jubilee
he gave away the store (& bought a hen).
You & I, honey – our own sheepish mandorla
door. A guilty thesis wrapped like a trowel
around my droopy hero, while wolves howled
& I's buried in muh work, ma'am. We wore
shin-guards, hoping to redeem our shins –
useful precautions, prognostications, nostrums
up our weary nostrils, endless strums on
tuneless, dog-eared mandolins – rin-tin-din...
The simplest skills seem to leap from our hands.
Technical wizards at burnt rubber, we drove
our first parents (home-made) to the grave –
over here, in Babylon. A ragged willow rings, bands.